The Empty Room
by Pawthorn
Summary: Warning: Major Spoilers. Follows "Post Mortem." This is story of returning, told from different viewpoints, in chapters of 221 words. Home is people. Not a place. If you go back there after the people are gone, then all you can see is what is not there any more.
1. Back Again

_Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock_

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**Back... Again**

For three years, Mycroft kept a discrete watch over his brother. His subtlest spies sent back reports of the younger Holmes' movements across the globe, though the man spent most of his days in the dark streets of London. This was rather frustrating, since it was also the hardest place to keep track of him. Still, despite a few minor slip-ups and difficulties, Mycroft's people had not been found out by any agencies, lawful or criminal, or by the great consulting detective himself.

Or so he thought.

Until the day he received a call on his personal emergency line from one of his agents.

"Sorry, sir, he just came up to me, asked to speak to you, I didn't know what else to do-"

Then a new voice came on the line, a voice he hadn't heard for years, a voice that he was simultaneously pleased, annoyed, and shocked to hear.

"This is a courteously call, Mycroft. I'll soon be stepping back into the public eye, and since these morons you employ have failed to divine as much, I thought it only right to let you know in advance so you can make the necessary preparations. Look forward to seeing you."

There was a click as the connection ended.

So that was it then.

Sherlock Holmes was coming back to life.

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_AN: Before Sherlock comes back for the third series with a storyline that beats the pants off anything I can come up with, I'm going to put forth my version of how things will unfold. This story picks up where my other fic, "Post Mortem," leaves off. Each chapter is still 221 words long, I'm still switching between character viewpoints, but now with dialogue and action. I wouldn't be doing this if not for reviewers, so thank you Book girl fan, Rose O' Sharon, john'sarmylady, AnyaMaia, spinner12, library witch, FashionablyHospitable, Esther Kirkland, leyapearl, 145796213, ladytokyo, catgirl789, Januscars, Kything to Write, B0nk3rs, springfieldbluebird, Grizziesmom, DressLikeYerCrazy, Viva Cohen, animal-221b, and those who reviewed anonymously. You were all so encouraging and eager for more, so here's more! Enjoy :)_


	2. Body

_Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock_

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**Body**

Female, age twenty-seven. Single gunshot wound to the back of the head. Door bolted from the inside, no sign of forced entry.

No weapon, motive, or suspects.

At times like this, Sally missed the freak. Even though years had passed since the... incident, everyone from the boss down was still struggling to find their step and regain their focus.

Lestrade strode in, rubbing his forehead.

"What'd her roommates have to say?" Sally asked.

"Not much," he replied, "They're in shock. It was a regular evening, Veronica came home at her normal time, went up to her room, and no one saw or heard anything till they found her like this today."

"Looks like a small caliber hollow-point bullet," said Anderson. "Probably from a revolver."

"So," Sally said. "Ronnie Adair comes home from work, locks herself in her room, and sits down at her computer. The killer… climbs in the window?"

"No," Lestrade answered. "It's flat brick wall and two stories down."

"Then the killer was waiting in the room, killed her—" Sally began.

"And then what?" Greg countered. "Disappeared? The police broke in the door this morning, and the window's only open six inches."

"Do you have a better idea?" Sally asked, heatedly.

"Simple."

The three police turned toward the voice of the newcomer.

"The shot must've come from outside."


	3. Bullet

_Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock_

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**Bullet**

Greg nodded to John as he entered the room, and received a nod in return. The doctor even acknowledged Anderson and Donovan with only some coldness. After consulting with the police for a year now, John had somehow found a way to put his feelings aside and concentrate on the work. Lestrade was grateful. Sherlock was gone and his chief corner was behaving very irregularly—not that anyone blamed poor Molly for still grieving. It took some convincing, but John had stepped in to examine bodies and crime scenes, and he had been a tremendous help.

"Sorry," Anderson was saying. "You think the killer made a headshot through that window with a handgun? The nearest roof has got to be 300 yards away!"

"Well," John said. "Those two just said that the killer couldn't have been in the room. If he wasn't here, he must've been out there."

"Doctor," Sally said patronizingly. "300 yards is a _very _good shot for a handgun—"

"Actually, it's an impossible shot," John interrupted, studying the wound. "Which is why I think it was actually a .22 caliber rifle."

Lestrade hid a smile under his hand. John was oblivious to the confused and slightly annoyed looks Anderson and Donovan were giving him, but Greg couldn't help being reminded of their reactions to a different consultant.

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_AN: I researched. I really did. I think my ideas here are plausible. Maybe. They're a shout out to ACD, so if you're a gun expert, give me a break. Please. I know nothing. I also don't know if gun ranges are always measured in yards, but I decided to go with it. If you're British and know that it's metric, let me know and I'll change it._


	4. Brash

_Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock_

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**Brash**

Anderson had to admit that John Watson had been helpful. But the man couldn't just waltz into a crime scene and start rattling off ridiculous theories.

"For your information, doctor," Anderson said. "A 22. caliber rifle cannot be silenced. No one heard a shot, therefore—"

"They wouldn't have," John said, turning from the body to the laptop on the desk. "If it was from an air rifle."

"An air rifle?" Anderson laughed. "As in, a BB gun?"

"No," said Watson, turning. "As in a high power, silent rifle that's used for hunting, target practice, sharp-shooter competitions… have you really not heard of this?"

Out of the corner of his eye, Anderson could see the boss and Sally hiding smirks.

"Well, I…"

"But what was she doing on here?" John said to himself, taking a pair of gloves from the kit. He turned on the laptop, and in a few moments, a website was popped up on the screen.

"Online poker?" Lestrade said.

"Yeah," John said. "And it looks like 'Radair' was _very_ successful."

"Was she in the middle of a game?" Sally asked.

"No," said John, thoughtfully. "Looks like she was looking through game histories… I wonder why…"

"Look," Anderson sighed. "We can have the tech people go through the computer. We should get the evidence back to the station."

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_AN: I RESEARCHED. Promise._


	5. Bump

_Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock_

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**Bump**

John watched as the police gathered their evidence and swept away. He hoped he had been helpful. He was fairly sure that Lestrade really wanted him there, even if Anderson and Donovan didn't. Either that or the DI was just watching out for him. John didn't really care either way; it felt wonderful to be back investigating. It wasn't the same, but still. It was good.

He was so lost in thought that he crashed headlong into another pedestrian. The old woman grumbled as John helped her pick up her things.

"Sorry—" he started, but she was already gone.

Frowning, he turned and continued into the clinic. He had just settled behind his desk to finish some paperwork, when there was a knock on the door.

"Come in," he said.

There was the old woman from the street. She stood uncertainly in the doorway.

"Yes?" John asked.

"Um…" came the feeble and oddly deep voice. "I wanted to… apologize for my… rudeness earlier, and to say…"

The crone shifted from foot to foot uncertainly, and then suddenly darted forward, looking at John intently. Then, just as suddenly, she turned toward the door, muttering, "Bad idea… too soon."

But as she turned, she stepped on her shawl. Before John could move, she had fallen, knocking herself unconscious on the tile floor.

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_AN: If you've read ACD's "The Adventure of the Empty House," you might know where this is going. If not, stop wasting your time with my writing and read it! It's way better._


	6. Bedside

_Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock_

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**Bedside**

The first thing he became aware of was the smell. Disinfectant. Hospital. Doctors.

John.

His eyes shot open.

Sure enough, he lay on one of the clinic's hospital beds with his old woman disguise on the side table and gauze on his head and John, in a chair nearby, looking as though he'd seen a ghost.

Well.

"Sherlock," John's voice was so weak, his gaze so conflicted, full of relief and shock and pain.

"John," This feeling—guilt or shame, he hadn't had enough experience sorting them out yet—was choking him.

John looked as though he had a thousand things to say, but it came out in one word.

"Explain."

And Sherlock did.

Right there in the hospital bed, he told about his premonition of Moriarty's endgame, about his plan with Molly, about the final confrontation, Jim's threat of "three bullets," about the waste truck that parked in front of Bart's at 9:23 every day, the body swap, the slight of hand, the hiding, the hunting, the watching… everything. John listened. Sherlock could see the painful memories flash behind his eyes as he slid each new detail into place in the story. It was so much to absorb.

Sherlock put it all on the table for John to see.

Now, all he could do was wait for his friend's answer.


	7. Bitter

_Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock_

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**Bitter**

John listened.

It made sense that Moriarty wanted the game to end in Sherlock's suicide, that Sherlock saw it coming and turned to poor, overlooked Molly. It made sense that she had done everything he asked of her and had been acting strangely ever since. It made sense that Sherlock used it all to his advantage and didn't let anyone else in on his plan.

It was heroic. The whole thing was so damn selfless and noble that John couldn't possibly be angry with the idiot.

Which was _infuriating_.

Because now, Sherlock was staring at him almost fearfully, nearly _vulnerably_, as if everything depended on John's next words.

Never mind that John had already fought his way through all the stages of grief, that he had just tried to help a concussed old lady and found that it was actually his dead flat mate in disguise, or that Sherlock had failed to trust him _again_.

The man had effectively died to save his friends, so John had to be grateful.

"It's a shame," John said, sighing.

He watched Sherlock's face fall with some satisfaction.

"What is?"

"That you decided end your heroic quest by coming to my office dressed as an old woman and fainting. Not your usual style."

John smiled and let his relief and happiness push away all bitterness.


	8. Back Out

_Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock_

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**Back Out**

Sherlock was almost ashamed of the relief that flooded him at John's words, but he kept his face neutral.

"I have _never _fainted. I fell and was rendered unconscious."

"I'm sure that's how _you'll_ tell it," John said. "Either way, the fall gave you a minor concussion. I would normally recommend a few days rest, but, well, it's you."

"Rest is out of the question," Sherlock said, clambering unsteadily to his feet. "We have a long night's work ahead of us. My net is closing around what remains Moriarty's organization." The detective strode toward the door with only a few wobbles. "Until tonight we can spend an afternoon at the flat catching up on…"

Sherlock's voice faded as he turned to see John, still standing by the hospital bed.

"John? What's—"

"Sorry, I'm…" John looked away and shook his head. "I can't go with you. I've got work."

"But surely it can—"

"No, Sherlock. I can't just go back to the flat with you. I don't live there anymore. It's not my life now. This is…" John sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Look, I think I need some time. Can we meet tomorrow, maybe?"

"Of course," Sherlock said, trying to keep the shock out of his voice. Then, not sure what else to do, he walked away.


	9. Blanch

_Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock_

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**Blanch**

As a woman on the police force, Donovan had rules for herself about not showing emotion.

Seeing a dead man walk through the doors of Scotland yard seemed like the perfect time to break those rules.

"Jesus," she whispered.

"Hardly," Sherlock Holmes replied, striding past her. "But I understand your confusion. Is Lestrade around?"

The D.I. himself came around the corner at that moment. He noticed the look on Sally's face and followed her stricken look.

His eyes landed on Sherlock.

Lestrade turned the color of curdled milk. One of his hands scrabbled for a chair, and he sank shakily into it.

"Hello, Lestrade," Sherlock said, and there was something almost _warm_ in his voice that caught Sally's attention. But she pushed the thought aside. Her boss was listing off his chair, looking as though he couldn't decide whether to vomit, faint, or cry. She wouldn't let him do any of that in front of a full squad room.

She grabbed the formerly dead detective by the arm and forcibly pulled him from the room.

"What are you playing at?" she said as she closed the door to the empty office behind them.

"I require police assistance," Holmes said, looking confused. "Naturally, I came to Lestrade—"

"Did you want to give him a heart attack!" she yelled. "You were dead!"


	10. Berate

_Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock_

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**Berate**

Anderson had heard Sally tear into people before, but from what he could hear coming from her office, someone was really getting it.

"—almost had me fooled!" She was saying "But you still don't care about anyone but yourself!"

She slammed out the door and almost knocked Anderson down.

"Freak's not dead," She said, barreling forward and hardly giving him a second glance.

Anderson stared at the door in front of him, shocked. Sherlock Holmes, _alive_? It wasn't possible… yet he could see the consultant silhouetted on the door blinds.

The detective didn't turn when he entered the office. He was bent over the desk writing a note.

"I have a lead for you on the Adair murder," He said bluntly. "Follow it if you want. I have to leave."

Holmes turned and shoved the note into Anderson's hands, and pushing his way out of the room. After a moment, the forensic scientist followed. He caught up to the consultant just outside the station doors.

"Holmes," He said. The detective turned to look at him, and Anderson hesitated. But he forced the words out. "I'm… glad you're alive. So is Sally. She's just shocked. It's our fault you... died. It nearly killed Greg. We're just getting over that and now you're alive. You see?"

The detective walked away without replying.


	11. Baker Street

_Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock_

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**Baker Street**

Sherlock was back at 221 B. Baker Street.

He had pictured this moment many times, he and John sitting in the living room, Mrs. Hudson fussing over them, Lestrade coming in to tell them that his police were ready to move.

He hadn't pictured the dusty, boxed up, unused flat. He hadn't imagined having to pick the lock because Mrs. Hudson was in Dublin on holiday. He hadn't thought he'd be going into his night's work alone because Lestrade was too much in shock to acknowledge his need for police backup. And John…

Well, Sherlock had worked alone before. He'd been alone for the past three years. He'd find a way to manage.

He stood from his place on the floor and walked outside, across the street, and into the empty building next door.

It's where he would shoot from if he were a sniper.

He had made a great deal of noise about returning to draw his shooter out. The dummy set at the window of 221 B. Baker Street would have been more effective if Mrs. Hudson had been there to reposition it every so often, but it would do. The murderer of Veronica Adair and the last member of Moriarty's crew would come to this spot.

Sherlock was alone, but he was ready.

It would all end tonight.


	12. Backtrack

_Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock_

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**Backtrack**

John didn't know how he made it through the rest of his day. It passed in a haze, until he finally glanced at his watch and realized he was late to meet Mary. He haphazardly closed down the office and left for the pub.

Mary had a seat by the window, drink already in hand as she waited.

"Sorry I'm late," John said, leaning in for a kiss before sitting across from her and motioning the bartender. "Weird day."

He nodded his thanks as the barman brought him his usual, and then took a grateful drink.

"You okay?" Mary said, giving him an appraising look.

"What? Yeah, great, everything's good, I'm…" John sighed, running a hand over his face.

"What is it?" Mary asked gently.

So he told her.

"He's alive? And he's back in London?" Mary said incredulously. "Well, what are you doing here, John?"

"Well…" John said lamely, "We had plans, and I couldn't just…"

"John!" She laughed. "Your closest friend is back from the dead! I think we can put dinner plans on hold for this once, don't you?"

John looked toward the door, hesitating.

"Oh, get out of here, you great idiot," Mary said, smiling. "You're no good to me like this. Go and talk to him."

John smiled, kissed her, grabbed his coat, and ran out.


End file.
